Potter's Pink Partisan
by TheAberrantInkwell
Summary: While taking an unwilling walk through Muggle London, Dolores Umbridge witnesses Vernon Dursley treating a young Harry Potter with far less care than any wizard would stand for. She immediately knows how to use this to her advantage. Harry never expected for this day-trip in London to end with him being rescued by a pink bureaucrat. Oneshot.


Dolores Umbridge was positive that the sun was mocking her.

It was bright and warm, as it had been every day of that blasted summer; far too hot, in her opinion. Even at midmorning the heat was almost unbearable, and she had no choice but to be out in it—without doing magic.

It was moments like these when she cursed her ambition, though she knew she wouldn't—couldn't—drop her goal. This was merely a stepping stone, a temporary place, as unpleasant as it was, and she would survive it as she had every other obstacle that had been in her path.

Her heels made a satisfying _click_ as she strode purposefully down the footpath, drawing herself up tall and adjusting her pink tweed jacket—a _blazer,_ she believed the muggles called it. Dolores much preferred robes. At least a simple cooling charm made the cumbersome clothes more bearable in the unbearably cheerful sunlight.

Muggles milled around her in varying states of unfamiliar dress, some clutching briefcases, others glancing at wristwatches as they rushed toward their destinations. There was a ambient sound of...of their _automobiles,_ with their loud rumbling and vile fumes, and of chatter, not that she could see many people talking—not that she was looking particularly hard. She tried not to look at them at all, not to dignify them with her gaze.

She loathed this.

If only there weren't so many shops, she thought irritably. Coffee shops, tea shops, places to stop for a quick meal and places to sit down and take your time. Diagon Alley had a pub and an ice cream parlour, for Merlin's sake! If the muggles would only be more frugal with their space, perhaps she could have already found a quiet place to disapparate from. This was _supposed_ to have been her day off, she recalled furiously, adjusting the bow atop her head.

If it had been anyone other than Minister Bagnold who had fire-called so early that morning, she would have reminded them of this. Assertively. But this was an important assignment, even if it did involve muggles, and even if she was only getting it because no one else wanted to do it. Doing it well could put her on an easy path to the top. She supposed that a meeting with the muggle Prime Minister wasn't a particularly _small_ job.

Dolores rounded a corner, to her annoyance finding even more shops. She was wandering, really, marvelling at exactly how hard it was to find somewhere unpopulated in muggle London. The smell of the place was really starting to get to her; the putrid aroma of fats, frying oil, garlic, spices from various ethnic cuisines she'd never tried before, all mixed together with perfumes, sweat, and exhaust. It was making her nauseous and slightly dizzy, combined with the sheer mass of people around her. She was tempted to disapparate then and there, but knew that it would set her back more than a few paces in her career. A loud wailing assaulted her ears and she saw a fat little blond boy a few buildings ahead and across the street, sobbing, face red behind a monstrous pile of greasy food that had fallen to the ground. Feeling her stomach lurch, she forced her mind back to the meeting and what she would tell the Minister when she was _finally_ back where she belonged.

 _She_ thought it had gone well; she had been slightly offended that the woman had refused to meet in her office, though at least she'd had the decency to pay for brunch. Bagnold had warned her that the Prime Minister wasn't particularly taken with wizardkind—had even tried to defenestrate poor Fudge when he'd left the Floo—and had done her best to avoid any further meetings with their Ministry. The nerve of her. But the last of the Death Eater trials had finally been completed, and there were details they apparently had to be passed on (for whatever reason). Fudge had been kind enough to arrange a compromise: a meeting in a small cafe (on the ground level) at a table laced with notice-me-not and anti-eavesdropping spells. He'd even found a muggleborn employee to take their orders.

Dolores winced; the little blond sod had begun screaming, reaching a pitch she hadn't thought any creature outside of a beached mermaid was capable of. Muggles were starting to stare, some disapproving, others slack-faced as a bony woman began shushing and offering condolences, practically yelling to be heard over the boy's wails—Dolores heard something about getting him another meal, as well as stopping for ice cream _and_ picking up a pastry on the way home. The onlookers' expressions assured her that this was, at least, not accepted behaviour in the muggle world either.

Disregarding this, and momentarily abandoning her search to gladly witness this proof of muggle savagery, Dolores let her eyes wander to a large blond man who could only be the boy's father. His face was a slightly unnatural shade of puce and looked a tad bloated, clashing almost comically with his bushy moustache. He was whispering furiously to a small, thin, knobbly boy who shrank under his gaze. He seemed to be making an intense effort to keep from yelling, as though the boy's wrongdoings were a secret to be punished away from the prying eyes of the public.

Dolores wasn't at all familiar with muggle clothing—the sole junior member of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office (who had actually been there for several years, and who nobody had bothered to promote) had prepared her ensemble—but even she could see that the black haired boy's shirt was far too big for him. It also sported a large splatter of brown sauce, and it wasn't hard to deduce that he had knocked into the larger boy and spilled his lunch.

The large man aggressively grabbed the boy's shoulder as Dolores began walking away, even more eager to return to civilization after this small reminder of how _un_ civil the muggle world was. Then one of the street lamps exploded.

Dolores froze, pudgy hand reaching for her wand in the inner pocket of her jacket, and turned. Her bulging eyes traced a line from the shattered lamp to the glass on the ground to the shaking, wide eyed, bespectacled boy. The large man was shaking as well, but this time in anger.

 _The boy was a wizard._

The bony woman was glaring fiercely at the boy as her husband transferred his grip from the boy's arm to his fringe. Dolores had already begun crossing the street, thankful that the exploding lamp had stopped the hulking masses of metal that muggles liked to ride in. Even if the boy was a muggleborn, he was still less detestable than those magic-less savages who had raised him, and no wizarding child should be left to _their_ tender mercies. However, with his forehead clear of hair, she saw the scar. Everything clicked.

She had stayed late one night to help Fudge archive; as an up-and-coming political force, and such a malleable one at that, she thought it best to stay as close to him as possible. She had, of course, been unable to help herself when she came across Harry Potter's file, and had read it despite the breach in security. She'd been granted high clearance, after all, just for that night.

The file, not meant for the general public, had contained the boy's birth certificate, medical records from That Night, and his current address and guardianship details. She vaguely recalled Dumbledore attempting to get the latter two struck from the record, citing the boy's safety, but his request had been denied. She'd never had reason to seek Potter out before, and giving his location up to alleged Death Eaters would only get her gold at best, and a lot of trouble if said alleged Death Eaters were caught and sold her out.

Now, though, that information would come in _very_ handy. She stood at her full (not very impressive) height and put on her best official face, leaving her wand in her pocket, and strode purposefully over to the man—Dursley, she recalled. She didn't allow the handle to sink completely into the fabric.

"Mr. Dursley," she barked, "I must insist that you unhand that boy at once."

"Who the hell are you?" Dursley snarled back. "You have no right to interfere! I discipline my nephew as I _like!"_

"Oh, I believe you'll find I have every right," she purred sweetly, angling herself away from the other muggles and opening her jacket slightly to reveal her wand handle. Dursley's eyes bulged and he paled dramatically; his wife, who had moved to stand with him, clutched her son's shoulders and gasped. Dolores smirked. She turned her attention to Potter, whose eyes were darting between her and his uncle in fear and confusion.

"Come now, Master Potter, I do believe the Minister will be interested to hear about your uncle's methods of _discipline_ ," she simpered, ignoring the crowd's gasps and trying to give the boy a kindly look as she offered her hand. She really hated children, but Potter would be very mouldable at only six or seven, and being a hero in the eyes of the Boy Who Lived could get her _very_ far.

Her calculated words had gotten a reaction from the crowd, and the Dursleys had clearly understood their double meaning. The Prime Minister would likely hear nothing about this, but Millicent Bagnold would come down on these muggles with all of her considerable might.

He tentatively reached out and put his considerably smaller hand in her own; he was decidedly thin, with not an ounce of baby fat (or, really, any kind of fat at all). His teeth worried his lower lip and his eyes wouldn't quite meet hers. No matter, there would be time to make a rapport later; they could stop in an unused room at the Ministry before she immediately brought him to Minister Bagnold with the dreadful news of his relatives' abhorrent treatment.

It probably didn't help when she jerked him quickly toward her, but he did look up thankfully when he saw that his uncle had lunged for his other arm. Good. Dursley was breathing heavily, face twisted in fury and disgust as he looked at Umbridge.

"We never wanted him!" Dursley snapped, spittle flying. Dolores took a calm step back to avoid it. "If you take him, we are _never_ taking him _back!"_

"You shouldn't have any reason to, Mr. Dursley," Dolores informed him coolly. "You have proven yourself to be singularly unfit to be guardians. We will be in touch."

Holding his gaze and surreptitiously patting her jacket pocket, Dolores strode away. The crowd parted for them, staring. She kept a firm grip on Potter's hand, and he clung right back.

"Who—Who _are_ you?" Potter asked, and she was pleased to hear a note of awe in his voice. It was likely the first time he'd ever seen someone stand up to his brute of an uncle.

"My name is Dolores Umbridge, Harry. Hurry along now, we've got much to attend to today." Potter scampered along beside her, and she grinned widely.

Now they just had to find a damn alleyway.

* * *

 **This will not be continued, but feel free to pick it up if you'd like. My mind immediately went to Umbridge finding a way around Dumbledore to place Harry with the Malfoys (since they think he'll be the next Dark Lord) and acting like that rich aunt type character, but you can do whatever you'd like. Please PM me once you post it though, I'd love to read it.**

 **As far as interfering with Harry, I don't see this as too out of character for Umbridge. She's a tried-and-true ambitious Slytherin, and Harry's "in" at the moment as far as the wizards are concerned; she wants that Senior Undersecretary job, and she's gonna do whatever she can to speed it along.**

 **If you're reading this and also read Kingside Bishop, I'm working on the next chapter. I got over the block of what to do next, and life got out of my way. It'll hopefully be up soon, especially since I'm "training" for NaNoWriMo.**


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